Look, look. How much improbable my dream could possibly be? Oh, poor, poor thing. Pitiful me, so aware yet so ignorant about the instrument of dreams. Does this one intangible thing people fight against each other for, called love, considered as that one term everyone else has, called dream?

My Lord?

Does that apply only if I am the victim of it, sacrificing my own self, and the number one thing that has always been mankind’s pride, common sense?

For I have always been wrong, misplacing my heart everywhere, leaving trails of blood in its process. I prayed and prayed for you to guide me, but were they the intermezzos to my path of happily ever after?

This one time, this one mistake. Another one, correct. I fell in love with one, whom I know nothing about. Am I sinning, or am I loving, that is one question I keep asking myself. He, someone so grand and honored, did not seemingly deserve a rubble like I. Thus far, it did not stop me even a bit.

Is it counted, my Lord, for me to love someone so real, and yet unreal, without expecting anything in return—and will undoubtedly get nothing in return? Will this be permanent or will this be temporary, as things have always been?



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